


What's Right In Front of Me

by ApatheticByDefault



Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:39:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApatheticByDefault/pseuds/ApatheticByDefault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're best friends. They have been for nearly ten years, ever since Mickey saw him on that swing set alongside his nosy brother.<br/>But that doesn't mean he doesn't ever think about their relationship just the slightest bit. Sometimes, when he's in bed alone, he wonders if the others are catching onto something he just hasn't seen yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if I should continue this. I am planning a lot for it.

He's very small.

That's the first thing an eight-year-old Mickey notices after walking on his own to the neighbourhood's park. He'd asked everyone at home if they'd walk with him, but they'd all shrugged and gone back to their business of shouting profanity at each other.

So Mickey just slipped out the front door, well within both his mother and father's vision, them just ignoring him and his whereabouts because there must have been more important things at stake. Because it would appear that a beer bottle had been shattered along their living room floor, with its contents spilling out over the cracked glass. 

As far as Mickey knew, his father crossed the line at wasted alcohol.

The park is very broken down, maybe one or two swings, with the chains close to detaching from the bar which promised to keep toddlers safe from injury, but which lacked integrity. The slide itself was already starting to yellow, rust building up on the rim situated beside it, supporting its meager weight.

Where most parks would have laid out warm sand, which would slide between children's toes, there was instead a rocky gravel-like substance which no kid would dare to walk on without the comfort and protection of thickly-soled shoes.

Come to the park during the summer, sure, just don't wear sandals.

Mickey had sustained enough abuse already, in his young age, to places more sensitive than that of his small yet calloused feet. So, seeing as how he couldn't afford anything of better making, he played in torn shoes and sockless feet.

The little boy standing under the swingset with an older-looking brother, older-looking but short and stout, so child-like in innocence and facial structure, has fire-tinted wisps of hair that fall over his eyes. He has to reach up after every little jump of excitement of his to push it out of his eyes.

That's the second thing Mickey notices, not even bothering to really look at the other boy, who pushes the redhead aside to sit on the more maneuverable swing, which still swings back only with considerable effort of kicking and pulling from him. 

The little boy, dressed in an oversized hoodie and pale blue jeans, has long eyelashes, overgrown for someone his age. They're as scarletly dressed as the hair that rests atop his head, and they move back and forth with just as much abandon.

When he turns to see Mickey, standing with his mouth slightly agape, he smiles, and Mickey can see his long lashes nearly graze over his eyebrows.

Mickey hasn't ever really seen a boy his age willingly smile at another in their neighbourhood.

It's of Mickey's knowledge, inflicted onto him from the start, however young he is, that it's too open to look at someone like that, someone you don't know. And maybe it would be worse to look at someone you do know like that, because there never was such a thing as trust for him, but it's still a surprise to see someone try to level with him, just with an upward twist of their face.

Mickey had never smiled at a stranger before, never really smiled at anyone, just for being anyone, and having them smile so grandly back at him.

Scratch that, before he had even uttered a word to either of them.

The other boy just turned away, not asking for a smile in return, or even a glance that wasn't casted with doubt and suspicion.

And maybe that was when something in Mickey clicked, or changed, fused together with something else to rewire him.

Or maybe it was when something that had always been there had just manifested.

He never really thought about it, how he'd actually looked over his shoulder to spot for bypassers who might have breached his own personal level of security, before making his way to the two boys in a quick and sloppy run.

When he got over to where the two boys didn't even look all that shocked to see him join them, the youngest welcomed him with his eyes.

It's only a few weeks later when his mother takes him to another home, much more upright than his, more colourful, even if still slightly bleak in its appearance, and leaves him there for a few hours.

She doesn't tell him where she's going, just gives him a short pat on the back, and quickly slides out the front door without so much as turning to look back at him.

No reassuring smile, not even peering at him in the most slight form, just quickly bustling down the front steps like the house were about to spontaneously combust.

Just leaving Mickey there to burn.

A hand reaches over to grab at him, still staring at the now closed door, and a shiver runs through his body, wracking at his brain and urging him to quickly whip around.

He does, to the sight of a much taller female with long brown strands of hair falling down onto her shoulders in what Mickey thinks to look at as a ripple. She leans down to grasp a hand to his quivering shoulder.

She flashes him a smile, just barely there, and guides him over to a corner where other kids his age are playing with a collection of toys and beating on each other.

The whole room smells of juice and crackers, crumbs still somehow attached to the shirt of the ever moving kids pushing on past him, pushing at each other.

And that's when he sees something familiar.

It's hard for him to find himself confused, because it sticks up in spikes of bright colour Mickey has only see on one person before.

He falls right back into him, like it wasn't surprising in the least bit that it's the same boy he found himself staring after just the other day.

After all, it is a small neighbourhood.

And if he does that for a few years or so, well, that's just a coincidence.

And if it leads to something more, something just slightly bigger... Well, I guess you could call that his fate.

* * *

 

Mickey has always been good at decieving people.

He can't be quite sure when it happened, but at some point, it all probably became irrelevant. 

Between stifled reputations and fist-to-mouth contact, drug deals, and washing his own blood out of his nails, he had to wonder if there was anything he could really say anymore that couldn't be said in other ways.

It's a little harder to see how great of a liar Mickey can be. He's rarely given the chance.

But it's always been there.

He knows he's not a trustworthy person. So much so that people might think lying would be impossible for someone like him.

But Mickey has always found ways of twisting things around. 

It's easy for Mickey to know what people expect of him. It's easy to manipulate that too, twisting the truth as Mickey threatens to twist the knife in his hand. But, as it's been mentioned before, Mickey is good at decieving people.

It is easy for him.

Probably much easier than it is for you or for me.

But the boy who seamlessly weaved his way into Mickey's life a long time ago doesn't seem to think the same thing.

He has never failed to tell when Mickey was lying. It's as simple as a twitch of his lips just as soon as he's finished speaking that has him cock a quizzical eyebrow at Mickey, one that suggests he's just not as easy as the others.

It's all okay though.

Mickey knows Ian will keep his secret.

Especially when he's exactly who Mickey is climbing out of the window to meet at two in the morning, nearly tripping over his own two feet as opposed to the intersecting bars he's trying heatedly to step over, nearly falling to his injury.

The closest he comes to actually hurting himself is when he lands perfectly on his feet after finally jumping, all pressure running through his legs to his feet when his feet come into harsh contact with the thinning grass below, in a state opposing equilibrium.

It's a familiar rush, running across the lawn and hopping onto the road in an action performed well just to reminisce on the many times they've done this.

Because they've done it more than once. And they've done it so many times that it's not anything anyone around would not expect. So it doesn't make too much sense that Mickey always makes things out to be more sinister than they really are, as if the two of them are preparing to pull of a heist.

He doesn't quite know why he feels better acting more surreptitiously than not. He thinks there might be more of a train of thought behind it, but there isn't really anything that comes to mind.

When he gets to the Gallaghers' house and slows down awkwardly right as he nears the front (as to not make it too obvious that he nearly sprinted the whole way there), Ian is already there and closing the door in a hushed manner behind him. Just before bouncing down the stairs.

It's less uncomfortable than it should be, where it can't be said that either slow down when they see the other making their entrance, so they end up standing directly in front of each other, stepping back with a few chuckles just as quickly as it happens.

Mickey doesn't feel much like really saying anything, just stares ahead at Ian for a while, and he doesn't notice that his lips are etched slightly apart until Ian comments on it.

He ducks his head down, running his hand through his hair, tugging on strands completely slicked in gel. And Ian knows this much too.

They walk off for a while's way, trudging along on the road in a familiar pattern. They don't mention where they're going, and it's not like they did before leaving either, because it's fairly obvious where they both want to head to. It's their usual.

It's the baseball field, and they're already hiding behind the bleachers, pulling out rolls of cigarettes, even though it's completely dark and vacant there, and there isn't anyone with wandering eyes to tag on them if they were doing anything wrong.

Which they're not. At least, not in the eyes of anyone actually living in such a cryptic neighbourhood.

"So, Fiona's been going through all of my stuff." His voice rasps over the first two words, slurring on the smooth 'S'. "I don't really know," he smirks when he sees Mickey raise his eyebrows in attention, "maybe she thinks I'm dealing drugs or something." Because it's obvious to both of them that it probably doesn't have anything to do with the hygenic aspect of anything.

"If you want in on the business, all you have to do is ask." His breath hitches on the last syllable, looking up at an eery shadow lurking in the glow of the street, and looking down when it becomes more than obvious that his mind is already playing tricks on him.

"Too risky," he replies, tilting his head, and it's almost like he's smiling because the rest of his face turns up as they would in the renowned expression, only that his lips stay pursed. It's a look he's only ever really seen on Ian, but he tries not to let that thought deter him.

Mickey likes to drop hints around Ian on the subject, dropping them at night in the consuming dark, hoping he can see them with such little light cast in their direction. It's like he thinks, if Mickey is in on it too, he has less reason to feel guilty about handing chalky powders out to fourteen-year-olds in alley ways. Maybe it would make it feel slightly okay.

Still, he finds he feels better when the cash if gripped firmly in his hand.

Even if, a week later, it's all gone, and he doesn't have any idea where it might have disappeared to.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees a glimmer of worry in Ian's eyes, but it's always almost like he never did when Ian flashes him one of his winning smiles and shoves him off, after one of his brief comments on the matter.

Still, Mickey has made a habit of insinuating when around Ian, bringing the subject up lightly, so as to say that he could be in on it too if he really wanted to.

So far, Ian hasn't bitten. Mickey kinda likes that. But it sometimes just gets in the way of the greater scheme of things . 

But, when Ian's hand snakes out in a trance to grip at the cigarette in his hand for a share, he can tell he doesn't actually mind.

And so it's all okay. Mickey knows Ian won't judge him.

If he feels his hand shaking when he hands the lit paper in front of him to the boy whose thigh is slightly touching his, he doesn't let Ian know it.

Like when you're up in front of a class of judging eyes, ready to merely read off the thin and ever-flapping piece of scrap paper you're gripping in your hand, and it's hard to believe those in the first row never realise just how unsteadily you're holding onto it.

And it's not like you've ever realised that tall kid who's always shouting out can't maintain a firm grasp on the notes in his hand either, when he's towering over seated kids, and wobbling slightly to keep the words from tripping off his tongue.

Mickey feels like that a lot.

He can't quite place a finger on it, because he trusts Ian more than any kid he'd never even dare to twitch in front of. He knows the boy would never hurt him.

At least, not purposefully.


	2. Races

If you trail along the passage leading to any of the back alleys lining the Southside, you're not unlikely to come running back up the way you came.

At least, one might think that would be the case.

But if one is fearless enough to enter into the small town walking alone, one is probably not all that scared of the sickly teens who hover over one another and yell their quick profanities in exchange for cash.

Mickey isn't. He's practically one of them.

Of course, he doesn't like to too closely associate himself with any of the people he likes to tell himself he's just "coincidentally" near.

He coughs a lot during their group exchanges, and he likes to tell himself he's steering clear of much mayhem by simply doing just that.

They actually don't hurt any one they come by that often. It's even rarer that Mickey does, something he's aiming for, just nonchalantly shoving a foot outwards at a kid already lying on the floor, hoping he doesn't feel it.

He never finds out if they do.

He can't wait for the day when he can just do this all on his own, never having to bare the occasional day of warped interaction, being without a gaggle of pricks who can't quite differentiate between a whimper of fear and a threat.

Still, the money is great. And if he ever wants to do anything else, it might be necessary, ironically enough.

This time though, the exchange is pleasant enough. But Mickey still steps a further way back to avoid having to harm the guy. If it should come to that.

Instead, he just waits until it has all smoothed over, and the other two guys procede to shove at one another.

He stays silent while the duo scoff exaggeratively at each another and continue munching on their words obnoxiously.

He hears the first (because he won't give in as to remember any of their names) mutter something about getting back to his girlfriend who he suspects is "waiting for him on the couch with her legs splayed apart".

The other nods along grinning and suggests the same thing of his, like it's some sort of a sick competition.

Still, Mickey can't imagine any girl going for either of them. Furthermore, Mickey can't quite understand why any guy himself would actually want to brag over having a girl chained to his arm. From what he could tell, from kindergarten anyway, guys were way more fun to be around. People you could relate to who would relate to you too. 

True, he didn't feel it was completely accurate to completely disregard women as life-sucking bits of grime stuck on the bottoms of men's shoes. Some could be really funny, sure. That just wasn't really the feel Mickey got from them though.

Maybe it's a bit shallow on his part, on anyone's part, but the feel of women being that certain way, the way that he doesn't generally find so appealing, is so deeply ingrained in his head that he can't quite see past it anymore.

At least, not to be attracted to them in any such way.

Still. It's another thing Mickey doesn't think about. He doesn't think he needs to.

He's sure there are other guys just like him that agree.

Their little meetings usually end like this, with Mickey slowing his pace to make things seem more casual when he turns from them to walk away.

When he gets to his house, he throws the hoodie onto his bedroom floor and turns to exit the room somewhat hastily. But it's just lying there out of place, and that's just not right-seeming, so Mickey kicks it deep under the bed. 

Better.

Then it's almost like he's come home twice, because he starts to race out of the house and back down the street, not even having bothered to take his shoes off when he entered the house. It wasn't like he ever planned on staying there long.

In Mickey's mind, if he isn't willingly the one who's established a reason to live there so grudgingly in solitude, it's not actually his home. For now, it is just a house. One he lives in until he can go home. 

He doesn't know where that is right now, but he knows whatever it is would be his decision.

That is, if Mickey ever gets the chance to leave. He doesn't always think he will. It only depends on where he is and who he's with.

When he climbs up the steps to Ian's house, the door swings open, and Ian walks out, closing the door behind him.

"Well, that was convenient." Mickey grunts, pressing his feet down against the first step, making sure not to fall backward down the steps and onto his head in his surprise.

"Yeah, I saw you coming down the street from my bedroom window." His head is down, which is odd. And Mickey can't help but to admire his build a bit. He has certainly bulked up over the past year.

He's almost unrecognizable if, unlike Mickey, you don't know everything there is to know about him.

Once, when they were close to falling asleep lazily on Ian's couch, Mickey began to count the freckles on Ian's cheeks. Like counting sheep, Mickey figured it would be easier with something laid out right in front of him.

It may have been too easy, because, before he knew it, Ian had fallen asleep and Mickey had still continued to count the reddish spots littering his face, entranced by thoughts of how they had gotten there so gradually over time to be bundled so tightly together.

Now, Mickey can't see any of them, like they'd disappeared over night, just as soon as he'd closed his eyes and stopping counting with his breaths.

He seems a bit stronger now. But Mickey thinks he always was strong in his eyes, so he guesses it isn't a fair test.

"You must have jumped down the stairs pretty fast. Anxious to see me?"

He rubs at his lip before looking up. It's a habit he must have picked up from Mickey, and he sometimes has to try to not come off as too flattered. Because he knows it comes from spending so much time with the boy.

Mickey follows his wandering eyes to also look up, and he can see Ian is staring blankly at the window to his bedroom, where Mickey can also see Lip rummaging about from within it.

"Actually, now might not be the best time." He looks back at him.

Mickey's heart drops a bit, but he picks it up with a pinch in his voice. "All right, just give me a reason."

"It's nothing," he shakes his head. It's one of the few times when Mickey can really see how different things are with him now, because wisps of bright red hair don''t fall into his eyes, where it is now short and bushy from where he cut it long ago.

It's not just that, because he seems more sure of himself. Mickey likes that.

He's not sure if he likes Ian better for who he is now just for the sake of it, or because he's just adapted with Ian to like who he is. Everything about him.

"Well, I guess. But, if that were actually the case, you probably would have let me into your kitchen by now, or something." The door is usually open at that. Never closed purposefully on him, even if he is graced with the sight of his best friend, disheveled and nearly shirtless, with the way his wifebeater droops down his neck.

"Look, Lip and I just had a little spat. A breakout, at best. I just don't need him turning on you."

Mickey raises his hands in mock surrender. "All right. Just roll with me. For now. He won't mess with you when I'm on your arms."

"Okay." Ian grinned down at him from about an inch of a height difference (Mickey had a feeling Ian was just waiting for him to feel a tad bit annoyed by it, but Mickey didn't see any reason to give him an excuse to gloat), barely there, but still a special smile reserved only for Mickey. "Just let me grab a jacket," he said quickly before shuffling back into the house.

"You look fine just like that!" Mickey called after him.

The sun glared down on him from behind the house. Mickey thought of the time trickling on by while he waited, but it was only less than forty-five seconds before Ian rushed back out of the house, and even before then, the clock had only just struck one.

"Where are you planning on taking me?" Ian swoops the much-unnecessary jacket over his flexed body, and Mickey watches.

It's a good question. Mickey just wanted to see Ian. Mickey just wanted to be with Ian, for a little while.

Now that he was, one might safely assume he hadn't thought that far ahead.

"I thought we could take the El up to the Northside, maybe pounce on some rich kids." Mickey doesn't tell him how short of a while it actually was that he "thought" the plan up.

Something on Ian's face tells him he already knows.

"Any plans for when we're arrested then?" Ian asks, climbing down the steps in front of Mickey, who just guides his eyes to watch after him.

"That's all on you, man. I might actually stand a day in jail." And it's probably true. Though he never had.

Sometimes, he wonders how far off that event might have been, if something in his life had only been slightly different.

Mickey isn't quite sure what it is that has caused him to veer off the seemingly only probable track, he just knows it wouldn't have been that far of a way off without it.

"Nah, I'm not really in the mood. Trying to avoid familiar patterns." He slips out, tighting the strings on his hood.

Mickey feels a sense of frustration bubbling deep inside him now, threatening to strangle at his chest. He always tries so hard with Ian. He just doesn't know why, because he can't seem to stand anyone else, and he lashes out at the others far too often.

But, with Ian, he's willing to push the feeling down inside him, pretend it isn't there.

"Well, then, what exactly do you suggest?" Mickey steps slowly down the steps, imagining himself tripping over them if not for the slight movement as he shifts his balance to stand beside the other boy.

"Just, follow me, okay?" Ian gestures upward with both his hands in turning away to start walking down the street. He doesn't really make it about Mickey, doesn't offer him a choice. And he can already tell Mickey is following him, even if not for the loud and irritating noise of Mickey dragging his feet on the ground behind him.

A bunch of neighbourhood kids walk by, and the obvious leader of the small pack turns his head to them and snorts derisively.

They get a lot of weird looks from boys in the town, but Mickey isn't sure why.

He thinks Ian probably has a better idea, but he doesn't care to talk to him about it.

In spite of this all, whenever Mickey cranes his head to look back to those who've just walked by him with a grunt and a whail, they can usually be seen racing off more quickly, the manifestation of evident fear written on their faces.

Mickey doesn't usually feel the slight movement on his own, but it's safe to assume he's scowling very obviously in their direction when it happens, biting down slowly on his lip, so that others' eyes can't help but to wander.

When they're out of view, taking their excessively baggy shirts and pants with them, Mickey turns to Ian and snorts himself.

The grin on his face slides into place quickly, creeping upward before he can think to not, and he chuckles a bit at the sound Mickey makes when he's finished scrunching his nose up awkwardly.

Mickey licks his lips and curves his mouth upward before downward to hide the fact that he himself is trying desperately hard not to break out into his own.

The landscape starts to shift and chane drastically in appearance with each further step they both take down the road, houses moving down past them, green fields spreading out into the open.

It's not until Ian starts to slow down, when he nearly stumbles over him in his haste, that he can actually see the whole picture: their school's field sprawled across the seemingly never-ending ground and the orange-to-brown track that runs in a twisted circle from his view.

Mickey pauses and looks over to Ian, who starts to stumble down the rolling hill and down to the bleachers.

They're not the bleachers they're usually under, rolling smoke as opposed to tracks of green and leaning atop one another drunkenly, for it's broad daylight, and the image of it isn't accompanied by the memories of Little League Baseball. All Mickey can think of in the second he sees it all laid out before him is the rush and feel of running circles that refuse to cease, and the feel of feet scraping the ground for only less than a second, till they're numb of feeling. And so it's almost like he's running along a thin sheet of air, missing the ground by a beat.

"Stop smiling." Ian grunts. "And move. I'm not carrying you down here."

Mickey steps on to follow him, because he wasn't before. Just stopped to admire the view.

He still didn't quite understand why Ian had taken him here. There was an intense urge making Mickey's stomach feel like it was slowly flipping, and he wanted to run. To chase something. But he just sat down and put his knees up, sliding his arms over them, when he and Ian reached the same level.

He was sure Ian probably just wanted to take a long drag on a cigarette and bask in the glow of the sun and the brezze that was the wind, do something they usually did, because, for all he did know about Ian, he'd never bothered to learn all he felt about the prospects of change. Because Mickey wanted things to stay exactly as they were.

"Get up," Ian instructs from above him.

And Mickey reaches out to palm at the ground that's slightly rockier, the part that has absorbed the heat of the sun into the pavement, waving off Ian's insincere offers of assistance and burning bits of gravel into his hand. 

"Before the sun sets." Ian snaps.

"I'm coming, just hold on." Mickey sneers at him, and he feels the expression changing on his face just as soon as Ian turns his back to start walking further away from him.

Ian puts his hands in his pockets and treads over to the running track, when Mickey looks up to feel his face fall.

"You're kidding, right?' Mickey asks him, but he's secretly hoping he's not. Maybe he and Ian have a bit more in common, and maybe it's just easier for Ian to show that.

"No," Ian smiles downward, reaching into his jacket to pull out a timer.

"Wow..." Mickey chides, turning his face upward to look at the light dodging the sky, breaking out into his own smirk, "so you weren't ever really going to give me the choice of what to do, were you?"

"Nope." Ian admits. "But I bet I can run faster than you."

He probably can. But Mickey thinks he deserves just a few more moments to himself before he finds out. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yup." Ian mutters, discarding the material and tossing it to the floor. "Wanna time me?" Ian doesn't wait for the answer before throwing him the gadget, which he catches in a fist with ease.

"Yeah, sure." Mickey says. "I don't know how much time we really have to time your running, but, yeah, sure."

Ian smirks. "Just wait till you have to beat it." He reaches down to pull on his form-fitting jeans, stretching them further down so they can hug at his ankles too.

When Ian veers down to run onto the sandy-looking path without hesitation, not bothering to give Mickey a warning before he's calling out to hip to press the start button, Mickey nearly drops the object in his hand.

He presses down on it firmly and watches Ian zoom forward to start, knowing he can't top it, watching, just admiring, the steady ignition of his legs leaping forward with each step, using the push of the ground to propel himself forward. 

Ian looks so relaxed zipping down the track, it makes Mickey feel relaxed too.

It's a subconscious action for Mickey to click down on the button when Ian finishes flowing through the first time, but he keeps his eyes locked on the slowling movement of the boy in front of him, weaving his way past the bleachers and up to lean down beside him.

He's panting, and Mickey can't help but to think he wishes he could always see Ian look so breathless. Relieved, but tired nonetheless. Like the burning in his throat is the best feeling in the world, and he doesn't need to keep running to feel the cool of the air testing against his insides when he swallows.

It's always a little surprising when you finally catch your breath, and you realise you could keep going. Just keep running before stopping, getting your breath back to its steady pace, before doing it all again, continuing the cycle until it all ceases to be.

But you'd be too gone by then to notice.

"Time?" Ian quips, standing up when he was finding it a little bit easier for the air to make its way to his lungs, standing so he and his shadow could hover over Mickey.

Mickey really wasn't paying attention, and it was with sheer luck and good fortune that he hadn't clicked the restart button in his haze. When he looked down, he could feel something rising in his throat, and he swallowed it down.

But something else was there too, trying desperately to push it out of the way. Mickey was kinda proud.

"Damn, Gallagher." He definitely knows he couldn't beat that, and he isn't too sure if he really wants to. Because the way that Ian beamed when he showed him the quick time was transcendant, and the picure of Ian smiling down on him, practically gleaming, so vibrantly was just too precious.

Mickey paced himself while walking toward the track, didn't look back, just allowed himself the moment before the teasing to just appreciate the weather.

People could do that. Mickey could do that.

He didn't wait for Ian to call down to him, just waved his hand up into the air.

He sprinted forward, racing down the dirth path, winding around its center, letting the wind thread through his air.

And it was exhilarating, because, for a moment, Mickey didn't have to think about anything else. He wasn't expected to think about anything else, and he let that concept consume him.

His feet felt so much, and not enough for Mickey not to feel like he was floating in the air, pushing it out of the way with his feet, and being pulled forward by an unseen force.

It's easy not to care, for once, what Ian is thinking. He knows Ian understands what it feels like.

It feels like Mickey is running. From the Southside, from his family, without actually having to work for it, to hightail it out of there. Without having to get hurt. 

Just feeling the rush of adrenaline, not stopping, going as fast as he wants to, around in a loop. He could keep going like this, back in the same spot only moments later. But just not on the same path the others are on.

It's like he's rewinding, fixing his mistakes.

But only because Mickey thinks it makes a great metaphor.

Ian doesn't say much when he gets back. He doesn't either.

The other boy just huffs out, "I still beat you." And Mickey nods, because he already knew he would.

"Yeah, I know. I could tell from the smug look on your face and the intense feeling I felt in my gut urging me to punch it." And that's about as eloquent as Mickey can get, so long as he's talking to Ian.

Mickey doesn't often stumble over his words around Ian, just lets them flow freely. He doesn't have to reverse, go back, get caught up in his own lies. He can just breath in his words, and out again.

Something on Ian's face falters for a second, before something etches at the corners of his mouth, and his slight frown twitches upward into another smile. He starts to take off his shoes, and it's plain to see that he didn't bother throwing on socks.

It's comforting, because Mickey didn't either.

They're both standing now on the open field, a distance from the track. Ian looks at him. "You wanna have an actual race?"

Mickey looks down at his feet. "Without any shoes or socks? Seems kinda dangerous, don't ya think? There could be bits of broken glass."

Ian doesn't relent, because he's probably been badgered all his life into doing these types of stupid things, living for the moment, gazing at stars, running on beaches barefoot.

But you don't do that on the grass, where your toes are likely to get all cut up and hacked at.

"Come on. Just for the sake of the moment." Ian says, already standing above him, and confirming his thoughts. He always thought Ian was a bit of a dreamer. Anyway, maybe more than he was one.

Mickey nearly jumps to his feet, when Ian holds out a hand to steady him upward. He doesn't quite grab his hand, just grabs limply at his forearm, trying to guide him to his feet.

"Where to?" He asks, because he isn't planning on not stopping now. With the sun looming down on him, it's a reminder that he doesn't just want to stay there all afternoon. There are other things he'd like to do with Ian before he's back at home, holed up alone in his room. Doing things even Ian doesn't know about.

"Just... To that tree over on that end." He points upward for a split second to it, just before he brings his arm back down and to his side, leaning downward to pick up momentumwith a shift of his foot.

Mickey's stance isn't quite the same, as he already knows Ian is faster, and he doesn't mind. He thinks he's strong enough to just admire that for a while.

Mickey nods at him when he turns over and blinks once, and Mickey knows that means he's ready to start.

They both jump forward, and Mickey tries, he really does, even if he knows Ian is a few too many stances ahead of him. Mickey finds himself watching him, looking at his face, just following him, because he's always done that, and it seems to have gotten him pretty far.

He hears Ian chuckling in front of him, and they both let out steady laughs, even if Ian can't actually hear his.

Mickey thinks he's too far inside his own head to really even consider trying. He thinks Ian's heart is more in it, can tell by the look on his face when they reach the tree, just finishing before either of them really does trample upon shards of glass.

Ian just slaps his butt after they've gotten ahold of their shoes and sends Mickey's mind reeling.


	3. Truth in Unthought Concepts

When Mickey got scared, it was like he started to shut down. True, he'd lash out furiously if you acted in the slightest way near him, if he even felt like it was happening too closely to him, but if others weren't there to yield him, he wouldn't make a sound, wouldn't think a thought, wouldn't act at all.

When Ian got scared, Mickey could never quite tell he was. Each moment of fear was different, in some instances asking Mickey to hug him close briefly, others telling him to walk away. Some begged him not to do anything near him at all, and some just didn't bother to care.

Mickey thought those were the worst, because there wasn't anything he could do from outside of Ian's little bubble that could pop it.

This was one of those cases. 

Mickey could tell Ian was on the verge of asking him to leave, so he made sure to get comfortable and sit down beside him, adjusting himself ever so slightly, to Ian's comfort more than his, with the dreadful fear that Ian might snap.

He had to wonder if the events unfolding around him were in correspondence with those which had taken place over the course of the last week.

It didn't make much sense, but he thought Lip might have something to do with it. Maybe he knew too.

It didn't seem too likely that Mickey could possibly have been the only one to find out. 

He didn't live there. Ian didn't owe him anything.

Still, Mickey found the irony in things to usually be stacked in favour of him.

He sat on Ian's bed, while Ian sat on Lip's, leaning down with his head cradled between his hands, which were a lot larger than Mickey might have anticipated, practically made to shield Ian from him.

He leaned down so far, not to scrape his clothed back along the top half of their bunk bed.

Staring up into the space surrounding him, Mickey could feel like their presence still lingered in the enclosed atmosphere. Like he couldn't say all the things he wanted to scream, because Lip and Carl were still there, judging him. Maybe judging them both.

It was only about thirty minutes ago that Ian had left him to himself in his bedroom while he ran an errand, and his steps could be heard dropping down each stair quickly.

Mickey had looked around the room less cautiously than he had ever before, treating himself with the musky smell of discarded shirts and beds currently unwashed.

He didn't feel all that uncomfortable for once, just standing there without Ian to tell him it was alright, that he didn't need to get so jittery (as he often did under such circumstances), because they were alone.

Mickey called out to Ian, asking him if he had an extra shirt he could wear, the thin straps of his shirt cutting into his skin where he flexed and reached up to rub at his cracked lips.

He didn't tell him why, didn't come up with an excuse. He didn't really have one.

Perhaps it was just the mere fact that the aroma was comforting. And if he only ended up "forgetting" to return the shirt to Ian the next day, or even ever, Mickey could admit that to himself. It would just be difficult to backtrack.

"Yeah, sure." Ian called out. He could be heard slamming a cupboard door from below him. Mickey retreated from the entrance back to one of the drawers, pulling more than once, the individual unit jammed.

He heard the sound of loud footsteps, but ignored it, hearing a faint call from Ian, shouting with a quiver in his voice, "wait, please, hold on."

The drawer finally scraped open, and in plain sight, Mickey saw a few magazines strewn from within.

He pulled out the first and knew what it was instantaneously enough. He didn't say anything, the thoughts not processing deep inside his brain, mangled with one another, accompanied by the vivid imagery laced through each page he flipped through.

He lost focus for a moment (for more reasons than one) and, in his haste, hadn't acquired the proper time needed in scrambling to shove the sheets of paper, bent and tattered, back into the drawer. He didn't get the chance to shut it, not even to shelter Ian's eyes from the sight of it when he came barging through the door, trepidation written all over his face.

Mickey still doesn't know what the say. The only difference is that he can feel words he's not even thinking about forming on the tip of his tongue.

"You know, it's not like you needed to tell me, or anything, but... You know you could have, right?" Mickey doesn't really think about what he's just said.

He knows he's not angry now. (He may even be quite elated, very strangely, and he doesn't know why, but it's yet another thing he refuses to think of.) And he doesn't think he would be the least bit upset in any other situation, because Ian is his best friend.

His only friend, actually.

Still he hasn't ever mentioned that. Ian hasn't either.

And Mickey doesn't want to think about what might have happened if Ian had told him, hopes he wouldn't have freaked out.

He isn't now. Freaking out, that is.

It doesn't feel too safe though, because Mickey feels like something within him has snapped, like something has changed slightly.

Still, he waves the thoughts aside lightly with the image of Ian crying, even if he's not, and tells himself there isn't any other way for it to be.

Mickey accepts him, and that's that. The hypothetical doesn't matter anymore.

"No, I didn't." Ian brings his head to his hands.

Mickey knows it's the only thing that would quite make sense. Because he trusts Mickey, knows he can, but you can never really trust any thing more than you can trust the fear burning from deep inside yourself when it comes around, and strangles at your insides.

"Well. Why not?" And Mickey is curious to know.

"Because I thought... you'd think it was wrong, or something." And it's the words said aloud that make Mickey realise that he actually doesn't think it's wrong.

He wonders if he would have about twenty or so minutes ago.

Still, he doesn't think about it. He just realises.

"Do you?" Mickey asks, and it's the first time that Ian allows their eyes to meet, but it's only for a split moment.

"No." And it's the way that he says it that lets Mickey know he's not lying. And if he's not, Mickey thinks that he doesn't have to either.

It's comforting, knowing he's on the same page with the boy seated across from him. It makes everything seem a little more okay.

Mickey breathes a sigh of relief he didn't even know he was holding.

Silence ensues, swallowing at Mickey, who can't see Ian's eyes. "It's just sex, right?" And some feelings... Though he doesn't really say that part to him.

"Mickey..."

"No, seriously." Mickey swivels his head from the posters on the wall over to face Ian, even if he quickly turns his head down to avoid the eventual eye contact. But he needs to hear this. Maybe a little part of Mickey does too. "Everyone wants to get off, right? And everyone has needs, no?"

Ian repositions himself, twisting and squirming on the bed, pressing his legs more firmly together.

Mickey doesn't want to make him uncomfortable, or any thing like that, but he'd rather have Ian know he stands a chance at accepting him. The real Ian. Not the one that only the others get to see. The real Ian, the one that Mickey has been allowed a chance to gaze at, when they're alone, and it's dark outside, even with the stars glimmering from above, and there is too little light for Ian to make out the sight of Mickey's eyes flittering about looking for his. Because they're best friends.

"Well, how can it be wrong to get off in the only way you can? I mean, provided you're not, you know, raping them, or really hurting them." He trails off awkwardly, because it goes without saying, but in this neighbourhood, you might just want to clarify. "Although, a lot of people are really into that, so it's kinda iffy." He doesn't miss the grin that's etching itself onto Ian's face.

He thinks he should probably reach out and wrap a hand around his shoulder. Something, anything to tell him that Mickey is physically capable of acceptin the responsibility of his words.

But he's not ready to feel Ian writhe from underneath his touch of fingertips razing his shoulder blades, squirming away from his grasp. He thinks that might hurt too much.

He shrugs. "Like what you like, man."

When Ian finally looks up to meet Mickey's eyes and he's not crying, Mickey thinks, fuck it, and nearly throws himself at the boy. Swinging more than an arm around him, and gathering him into a tight embrace.

It's not weird, because they're best friends. In any other case, it might have been. But Mickey had known this boy close to his whole life. It was different.

Mickey knew that when Ian let out a stifled giggle, sending vibrations both directly and indirectly running up and down his spine.

He doesn't ask Ian if he has a crush on him, doesn't look at him like he has any cause to be the one who's uncomfortable. He knows what's right, and what actually matters.

Even though the thought makes him a little uneasy. Just not for the reason you might think it does. 

Besides, he can't help but feel like the prospect of Ian being attracted to him would be wily improbable.

That's something he does think, quietly to himself, as soon as Ian closes his eyes.

 


End file.
